


Ease Into Touch

by jemariel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mary is just sort of swept aside, Porn with Feelings, Taking It Slowly, Understanding John, Virgin Sherlock, fear of intimacy, post-HLV, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-30
Updated: 2016-08-30
Packaged: 2018-08-11 22:38:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7910296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemariel/pseuds/jemariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a plan.</p><p>“An experiment, if you like,” he says as he explains it to Sherlock. “I’m going to go have a shower. And then you,” he points at Sherlock, “are going to come into the bedroom,” Sherlock swallows, “and touch me.”</p><p>Exploring the idea of Sherlock as skittish about physical intimacy but desperate for affection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ease Into Touch

**Author's Note:**

> This is inspired by Ivyblossom's (very old post I'm sure, I found it while finally reading through M-theory) conjecture, found [here](http://ivyblossom.tumblr.com/post/76546368769/hi-love-your-thoughtful-meta-one-topic-i-havent) about what Sherlock said to Janine to get her into a fake relationship, all of which was true about John rather than Janine. Practicing what he wanted to say? Let’s take that as a given.
> 
> Specifically this part:  
> “Oh yes, he’d like to have a physical relationship. With her. He’d love to! But he’s very nervous about it, he’s scared of it, it will take time. He’s not sure what he’s doing in that department, or what he wants, or likes, it’s a big mess. He’s ignored that part of himself for so long, he feels like it’s a foreign country. It will take time for him to feel entirely comfortable. Lots of time. Is that okay? He wants to do this, but he wants to do it right. He’s afraid, if they move too fast, that he’ll shut down and lash out at her and destroy everything. Will she take it slowly with him? Not put any pressure on him? He knows it’s weird, he’s sorry, but he’s doing his best. He is, actually, quite desperate for physical affection. He loves it when she touches him. He loves feeling like someone she would want to touch.”
> 
> So I wanted to explore that. With John. 
> 
> Here goes!

John has a plan. Sherlock isn’t sure it will work, but he’s hardly the expert in these matters, so he has no choice but to trust John. At any rate, it couldn’t hurt. They’ve been going slowly, out of necessity - Sherlock skittish as a colt and full of anxiety, and John all too accustomed to being hurt and only recently divorced. The temptation is there, of course, oh god is it there, boiling just below the surface, to simply rip each other’s clothes off and take this to the furthest level, this thing that they have both wanted for so long and now finally know that they _can and will have._ Sherlock feels it every time John kisses him, feels his pulse pound with desire and relief and _Oh god, can I? Is this really happening?_

But desire is only part of what makes his heart clench in those moments. Fear. He knows it well enough now, starting to recognize the signs. He’s terrified. He has absolutely no idea what he’s doing and he can’t shake the feeling that he’s going to humiliate himself somehow. John has done this before - sex, relationships, _feelings_ \- whereas Sherlock has played the part of the sociopath for so long, pushed away and fought against this for his entire adult life, and now…

Now he’s gone and got himself in a relationship with the only person who has ever mattered to him like this and he cannot afford to screw it up. If he makes a mess of everything again and John leaves _again_ , he doesn’t know what will happen but it will be nothing good. Probably actually throw himself off a roof this time. That was part of the point with Janine - oh obviously she was useful to get to Magnussen but she also presented a convenient opportunity to explore… this… in a controlled environment where he could keep himself detached. Someone with whom the stakes not nearly so high. Pity he couldn’t muster even the slightest sexual attraction to her or he might have got a bit more hands-on experience. As it were.

Probably a bit not good, but everyone experiments. Don’t they?

Experiment. Yes. John has a plan.

“An experiment, if you like,” he says as he explains it to Sherlock, sitting on the edge of his chair which has been pulled a few inches closer to Sherlock’s. Sherlock tries to relax into the cushions, aims for a semblance of his usual slouch. Doesn’t know how well it works. Doesn’t even know why he tries when John will surely know it’s a ruse. “I’m going to go have a shower,” John says, “And then you,” points at Sherlock, “are going to come into the bedroom,” Sherlock swallows, “and touch me.”

Ah, there it is, the pounding of his heart. “John, I -”

“Just touch. Doesn’t have to go anywhere, though it’s fine if it does. I won’t touch you if you don’t want me to. I just want you to get used to the idea. Okay?”

John’s face is so open right now, so unguarded as he says this, eyebrows up and eyes clear. A little smile wrinkles him all up in the corners and Sherlock wants so badly to touch, to kiss, to learn every freckle and pore and fine line. And here he is, offering him exactly that chance.

Sherlock nods. “Okay.”

John’s smile brightens. “Good. Come on in once I’m finished, yeah?” Then he pats Sherlock’s knee briefly, stands, and is through the kitchen and the hall before Sherlock can think another word. He hears the sound of water rushing through the old pipes before he remembers breathing again.

It’s a good plan, probably. John has thoughtfully given him a moment to process before having to actually face the prospect of him - naked? Probably naked - in Sherlock’s bed, his to touch. Oh, they’ve seen each other in various states of undress before now, of course they have, but… never with this kind of explicit intent. And he has touched parts of John Watson, and vice versa, but never all of him and only through clothes. One particularly memorable occasion two weeks ago had found them on the sofa with Sherlock’s legs around John’s thighs, ankles crossed, his hands full of John’s hair and John’s arms locked tight around Sherlock’s chest and waist. Sherlock could count all ten fingertips where they pressed into his skin. It was the first time Sherlock had felt him - _there_ \- their erections pushing against one another through jeans and suit trousers, electric and hot and hard and Jesus, he was becoming aroused just thinking about it.

Sodding teenager in a 38 year old’s body.

No, stop that. John wants him, just as he is, has told him so. Against all odds, in spite of all that they have been through that could have - should have - pushed them apart, John wants him, wants to be with him, and soon Sherlock is going to touch him. _Everywhere._ Because John wants him to.

The sound of the water ceases, leaving the flat feeling more silent than it had before. Sherlock waits, standing in the kitchen before a cup of tea he’s apparently just brewed - didn’t even realize he’d come into the kitchen, how far in his mind had he been? - until he hears the quiet but telltale creak of a bedspring from his room. (It’s still his bedroom and the room upstairs is John’s again but they’re far more frequent visitors to one another’s territories than they once were.) John is ready. He’d better be ready too.

Sherlock leaves his tea on the worktop and moves toward the hall, toward the bedroom door which is open a crack. Peers inside.

The first thing he sees is John’s feet, crossed at the ankle at the foot of his bed. As he moves inside his gaze travels up well-muscled legs, dusted with hair, thighs and hips draped with a towel - he’s not sure if he’s disappointed or relieved - and then he’s staring at John Watson’s chest, bare for his gaze. He’s not overly muscular but he clearly takes care of his body. Broad shoulders, defined biceps. John has his hands laced behind his head where he’s propped up on the pillows. It’s a curiously vulnerable position. Sherlock looks at the tufts of hair under his arms and feels a powerful urge to bury his face there and breathe. He probably smells wonderful.

“Hey,” John says, and Sherlock meets his gaze.

The way he’s looking at Sherlock is… like Sherlock is a treasure, something to be treasured, handled well and with care and Sherlock can feel his long-denied heart melting like butter in the heat of that gaze. Sherlock steps fully into the room and shuts the door behind him with a click.

“How should I…” he swallows. “Should I be naked too?”

John shrugs. “Whatever you’re comfortable with. Remember, this is about you.”

Sherlock’s brow furrows and he almost bites out his typical response - I don’t know what I’m comfortable with John, that’s the whole problem - but instead he stops and tries to think. How does he want to be? Not naked, probably. But closer than he is now. Slowly he unbuttons his shirt, not looking at John lest he see how his cheeks burn, and slides the silk off his shoulders. He hesitates a moment, then unbelts his trousers and steps out of them. There. He crawls onto the bed, settling with one leg tucked under him next to John’s hip wearing only soft black briefs.

“Hey,” John says. “Look at me.” When Sherlock looks up John is still looking at him like he’s - like he’s -

Loved.

Sherlock can’t help the quirk of a smile at the corner of his lips. Yes. That’s the whole point of this. John loves him. Some of the tension eases from his shoulders and unwinds from around his ribs.

But looking at the feast laid out before him, he’s still uncertain. “Where do I start?” he asks, the deepness of his own voice startling in the quiet.

For a moment he’s worried John will say “anywhere you like,” which would be supremely unhelpful. Instead John seems to think a moment, then pushes himself up a bit on his hands. (Sherlock tries to ignore the way the towel slips a little lower at the movement. He can’t.)

“Where have you always wanted to touch me? All that time, before, when we couldn’t - when we weren’t - what did you think about the most?”

Sherlock’s eyes cut briefly toward what is covered by the towel, but that’s not even the most honest answer. He looks into John’s eyes for a moment - still startled by their many myriad shades of blue - and then reaches out.

Long fingers curl around John’s right wrist, pull, and the limb stops taking John’s weight and comes up to Sherlock’s grasp. John’s hands… he’s always been enamored with them. So small compared to Sherlock’s long palm and fingers, but with such strength. Broad, firm, sure. Blunt fingertips, carefully clipped nails. He turns John’s hand over to examine the lines of his palm, the calluses on the pads and sides of his fingers. He takes John’s other hand and examines the differences between them - left slightly larger and more weathered, more heavily callused, but not as different as one would see in right hand dominance. Sherlock has seen this before, on left-handed corpses and victims and suspects and random people on the street. He is well aware of the extent of John’s ambidextrousness, a natural side-effect of being left handed in a right-handed world, and this physical evidence of it… it makes him shiver.

“See something you like?”

John’s tone is light, just this side of teasing - _playful_ one might say, but people don’t play with Sherlock Holmes. They call him psychopath, freak, amateur, virgin.

Except John.

Sherlock looks up again and sees a little smile of wonderment on John’s face. He’s always liked watching Sherlock deduce. Maybe that’s what he’s doing now, and Sherlock could tell him a thousand little things about his life the past week from examining his hands - but he won’t. Not the time, he suspects.

Time to move on.

Sherlock drops the right hand - moves over to the other side of John’s legs to get a better angle on where he wants to be - and then slowly begins tracing his way up John’s left arm. He feels the little bumps of bone at wrist and elbow, presses his thumb into the hollow of the joint, traces over the delicate white skin of John’s forearm with his fingertips. He feels the bunching of muscle as John clenches his hand - ticklish perhaps? Sherlock has never had to worry about tickling someone before. It’s a marvel. He does it again just to be sure, and this time receives a pronounced shiver and a tensing of the arm.

“Tickles a bit,” he says with a little puff of a laugh.

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

John sighs and his arm relaxes. Sherlock’s touch is firmer as he moves up John’s bicep, feeling the definition of his muscle tone there. God, that’s… good. John must have noticed him pausing over bicep and deltoid, because suddenly John’s arm bulges noticeably. He’s flexing for him. Showing off for Sherlock Holmes, the man who invented showing off. He can’t help but grin and squeeze the tight musculature.

“Like that?” John’s voice drips with flirtation. Sherlock just hums low in his throat.

He wants to kiss him there. Is he allowed? He must be - they are practically naked in Sherlock’s bed and John is flirting with him, if he isn’t allowed to kiss _now_ when would he be? His heart skips a few beats as he lowers his head and -

John’s skin is warm against his lips, dry and soft and smelling fresh from the shower. He runs his nose up and down the curve of John’s shoulder, learning the feel of it. He presses his lips in again, mouth a little open this time, letting just the tip of his tongue come out to play. John tastes like summer afternoons, like soft wool and tea without sugar, still a bit like soap and water, and oh, so warm… 

He doesn't even notice that John’s hand has fallen into his lap until John jerks it away suddenly, and Sherlock starts back. “Sorry, sorry,” John says. “It’s just - said I wouldn’t touch unless you -”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, looking down at where John’s clenched hand hovers a few inches over his bent knee. And it is. It really is. Sherlock can feel arousal spinning low in his belly, but he’s not hard yet, and near as he can tell neither is John. It’s fine. A hand on his knee. Should be perfectly alright.

He takes John’s hand and puts it back where it had been. His palm is hot on the cool skin of his leg. John doesn’t move to insinuate anything further with the touch. Just rests his hand there, loosely, palm down, fingertips lightly tapping his upper calf. Sherlock smiles and returns to his exploration.

He finds himself face to face with John’s scar. He’s seen it before, but not at this range, and he’s never touched. His fingers trace around the edges of the raised flesh, the hard knot of the main entry wound, the spidering where infection started to spread, the snarls where bullet fragments had to be removed. Curious, he pulls John forward a bit - John’s hand slides up his leg and then twitches into a fist - and inspects the back of his shoulder. No exit wound. That’s good. Exit wounds are messy, and the probable angle of entry would have meant a shattered scapula if it had gone through, which would have meant significant reduction in mobility and -

“Sherlock,” John’s voice is a bit muffled. “I know you said you could touch anywhere but - this isn’t exactly comfortable.”

Sherlock lets him go and sits back a bit, face reddening. “Sorry,” he says. “I was curious.”

John is still smiling, but now it’s the fond-exasperated smile that usually comes up when Sherlock is being charmingly oblivious or harmlessly eccentric. Sherlock smiles back.

He wonders if perhaps that’s enough touching for now, if John is getting bored, but before he can even seriously consider stopping his hands are in John’s hair. He loves John’s hair. Loves to get it all mussed up, loves the texture of it through his fingers, loves watching the light change it from silver to gold and back again. He loves it when John is dawdling on getting a haircut and it starts to curl around his ears. He loves the little breathy moan John sometimes makes when he gently pulls on it, just like that - ahhhh there it is. John’s eyes are closed and his mouth is a little open and he likes this. God. Sherlock thinks he might love that most of all, seeing John’s face relaxed and tilted up towards his, concentrating on the sensation that Sherlock’s hands are giving him. He stops pulling and starts gently massaging with his fingertips, moving skin over bone and feeling tension recede.

“Mmmmmmmm s’good…” John breathes, and Sherlock freezes for just a moment. He’s going to get hard. He can feel it starting. He shifts his legs and takes in a deep breath, and determinedly doesn’t pull away from John’s hair even though part of him wants to, because most of him very much doesn’t. He wants to keep touching, keep going, only…. It’s going to get more complicated.

John senses the change, and he cracks first one eye, then the other, brow lightly furrowing. “You okay?” he asks, just as quietly as before.

Sherlock swallows, licks his lips. “I think so,” he says, hating the way his voice quavers. John’s eyes open more fully now, travel over his face and up and down his body. This must be what it’s like, to be deduced. Not entirely comfortable, but Sherlock is grateful that he doesn’t have to put anything into words just now.

“It’s okay,” he says with a smile. “I promise. You’re okay.”

Sherlock sucks in a deep breath at that. That, somehow, was precisely what he needed to hear, and how the hell does John do that? Suddenly it’s too much to not be kissing him right now, and sod it all, he’s going to do it. He leans in and relishes the surprised “Mph!” from John’s lips as they press together. He doesn’t normally initiate kisses, but right now… he has to. God, he just has to.

And then John’s arms are around his shoulders and it is perfect. His heart is racing but it’s wonderful, pressing bare chest to chest with John Bloody Watson and feeling him smile against his lips, hearing a laugh in his throat and knowing that it’s just for the joy of this, his own blood surging with love and light and he feels positively effervescent. Giddy. Buoyant. This is it, he knows, this is how it’s supposed to be and he’s -

He’s terrified, but he doesn’t stop kissing. He feels his joy start to edge over to make room for panic but he Doesn’t. Stop. Kissing. Because he can’t let this slip away. He can’t continue to be _not-ready_ and _too much_ and _too little_ because if he doesn’t push through eventually, John will leave. He wants this. They both want this, that much is blindingly obvious now that they’ve finally pulled their heads out of their own arses, so he needs to just get over it and -

John is pulling back. “Sherlock. Hang on a moment.”

He sounds worried. God, even when Sherlock is trying to do it right, he manages to fuck everything up. He feels his face burning and his heart will not calm down.

But John just puts a hand on his chest, right over his racing traitorous heart, and says “Breathe.”

And Sherlock does. He closes his eyes and takes in, lets out, a few deep breaths.

“I told you this didn’t have to be anything,” John is saying. “This isn’t about me or what I want. This is about you. I promise you, I am not going anywhere. No matter what.”

Sherlock feels the prickle of tears at the corners of his eyes, and _fuck_. He wishes he were better than this. Wishes he could be comfortable with this. Wishes he weren’t so broken and damaged or that John weren’t so wonderful and _good_ , because he deserves so much better than this.

“Hey.”

Sherlock can’t look up.

“Hey. Whatever’s going on in there, stop it. Okay? Please.”

It’s the please that does it. Sherlock looks, and sees John’s eyes soft and imploring. “C’mere,” he says, and he’s laying down a bit further, pulling Sherlock down onto his side and into John’s embrace, one arm around him and Sherlock’s head pillowed on his shoulder. Sherlock goes willingly, clings tightly to him. They’ve done this before on the sofa and it has so far proven the best way to calm Sherlock down. John’s hand traces nonsense patterns over Sherlock’s shoulder and arm and he rocks gently, whispering things like “Don’t worry, I’ve got you” and “It will all be okay” and “You can trust me.” Things that Sherlock used to think were meaningless nothings that people said to manipulate and entrap, but when John says them, they are exactly what he needs to hear. If John is manipulating him, he can only believe it’s for good.

Some time later, after his heart has slowed down to a reasonable pace and his breathing has evened out, after John’s grasp on him has loosened into something comfortable and familiar, Sherlock remembers that they are _still_ both practically naked in his bed and he _still_ has license to touch however he pleases.

At least, he thinks he does. He sits up and stares down at John, feeling bolder for having passed through a minor storm together. “May I continue?” he asks.

John blinks in surprise, but a smile tugs at his lips. “Yeah, if you like. Of course you can.”

Sherlock smiles back, then drops his gaze to John’s chest. He has a notion in mind. He knows what he _wants_ to do. He tests it a few times in his mind to see if it’s feasible, and yes, it would seem to be. No panic. No danger. So he throws one leg over John’s to straddle his knees and bends down to press his lips to John’s right nipple.

The gasp of surprised want this elicits is as heady as any drug Sherlock has ever tried. When he opens his mouth to taste - _god, his **skin**_ \- John’s hands come up to cradle his head and tangle in his hair for a moment before lifting away, mindful of his own promises. Sherlock laves with his tongue, sucks, worries lightly with his teeth. This is somewhere he likes to touch himself, and while he suspects that his own nipples are more sensitive than most men’s, John seems to be reacting quite well to this stimulus. Perhaps it’s just the novelty of the sensation. Sherlock moves to the other side and gives the other nipple equal treatment, and is graced with a breathy “ _mmmmffffuck._ ” Maybe not just the novelty.

Meanwhile, his hands seem to have developed minds of their own, tracking up and down John’s belly and sides. John’s arms are extended above his head - gripping the headboard in fact, in an effort to stay safely away from Sherlock. But that’s not what he wants. All at once Sherlock wants John’s arms around him, wants to feel enclosed and safe pulled against John’s strong chest. He sits back just a little and reaches up to pull at John’s elbows.

John releases the headboard without much urging, and when Sherlock directs his arms downward around himself John gets the idea pretty quickly. Sherlock wraps his own arms around and under John’s ribs, between him and the pillows, and buries his face in John’s neck. He opens his mouth and tastes there too, just because he can, and John lifts his chin to allow this. To encourage it. He’s starting to get restless. Sherlock can feel him shifting his hips, feel how his hands are tracing patterns all over Sherlock’s back. If he shifts down just a little - yes. Yes, now he can feel John’s erection, still covered in terrycloth, pressing against his belly. John’s hips surge and press, but then he stills himself. Still trying to make this all about Sherlock.

But for Sherlock, it is all about John.

He wants to see everything. He wants to see what kind of reactions he can coax out of John’s body. Wants to see what he likes, what he doesn’t like, how Sherlock can bring pleasure to his flesh. He wants to know these things, because this is what lovers do. This is what he wants to do with John, who is his lover, or will be soon enough.

Miraculous.

Sherlock leaves off John’s neck to pull up and look him in the eye. John is flushed, his mouth hanging a little open and his eyes dark. “Turn over,” Sherlock says.

John’s eyes flicker down a few times. “I, um. If I turn over this towel is not going to stay where it is.” It’s a warning and a question all in one.

“I know,” Sherlock says with the best approximation to his usual smug smirk that he can muster.

John turns over. The towel gives up its last efforts at maintaining modesty.

There he is - John’s body, all in one long, clean, gloriously unbroken line. The breath leaves Sherlock all in a rush and it takes him a moment to find it again, but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter, because suddenly his hands are full of John’s skin, the strong muscles of his back and shoulders, the dip of his lumbar spine, the - oh god, can he really? - the plush curve of his buttocks. Sherlock can’t stop touching, never wants to stop touching, and the way John’s hips are moving - little abortive thrusts into the coverlet - he’s pretty sure John doesn’t want him to stop touching. He abandons John’s buttocks to run down his strong runner’s thighs, feeling coarse hair, compact strength, the visceral motion of his thrusts. And suddenly Sherlock’s blood reaches the boiling point, and he grips John at shoulder and hip to roll him onto his back again and -

Fuck.

It takes quite a shock to short-circuit Sherlock’s brain. It happened when John proposed that Sherlock be his best man. It happened when John stammered out a clearly-practiced confession of the exact nature of his feelings. And it happens now when Sherlock gets his first sight of a completely nude and very sexually aroused John Watson.

He can’t look directly at his cock for a moment. Like trying to look into the sun, he has to look around the edges first. It’s still shocking to see so much skin - so much living skin that is. His gaze follows the line of his body from thigh to hip to stomach to chest and back down the other side, noting the flush of skin and heavy breaths as he goes. And then finally up the inside of John’s restlessly moving thigh to his scrotum, drawn up tight, and John’s cock, standing proud and thick, arching back to touch just below his navel.

Sherlock can feel his mouth water at the sight, but that… that would be too much this time. Instead he reaches forward, slides his hand along the same path that his eyes have just traveled. When his touch slides up John’s thigh the man twitches below him and it makes Sherlock glance up to John’s face. His eyes are half-lidded, watching him with naked lust and… no, not a hint of impatience. He wants this, he very very much wants Sherlock to touch him, but… he’s not entreating. Just as a test, Sherlock lowers his hand back down to the level of knees, even though he is definitely going to touch John Watson intimately in a moment. John just relaxes a little bit back into the pillows - _melts_ , almost - and his eyes and mouth fall closed. It’s almost as if…

He’s scared too.

The thought hits Sherlock like a bolt of thunder, the idea that _John might be scared too_. And strangely it emboldens him, chases away the last shreds of his uncertainty and he finds his hands moving forward to reassure him that yes, he is wanted, he is loved, he is entirely safe, and -

One hand lands on John’s hip and the other curls around the hard flesh between his legs. John inhales sharply and every muscle from his knees to his shoulders tenses, pushing up. Sherlock wraps long fingers around John, soft skin over heated iron, and he strokes. It feels familiar, at least. He tries to recreate the way he touches himself, and the breathy pants and curses John is giving him are very encouraging.

He wants to be closer, so he scoots in on his knees, encouraging John’s legs to fall open and admit him. John cracks an eye and grins at him through his panting. “Not like I’m… gonna stop you but… You sure?” John asks.

Sherlock grins back. “Do I seem uncertain?” he asks, tugging a bit firmer. John gasps and pushes his hips up to meet him, then shakes his head. Sherlock can feel him getting harder, can feel the blood pulsing in him, the slick starting to leak from the tip of him. He pauses the motion of his hand for a moment, and John pushes a few times through the tight ring of his fingers before stilling. Then Sherlock falls forward, bracing himself over John on his other arm and staring down at his hand moving and John’s cock disappearing and reappearing in his hand. John’s hands come up to clutch at him, moving restlessly over his ribs and hips and tangling in his hair, and suddenly Sherlock realizes that he is as hard as stone in his own boxers. So focused he has been on John, his own erection is aching.

Can he…? His heart pounds again but this time it feels like he’s on a roller coaster, giddy with delight and yes, a thrill of fear, but he knows now that this is safe. He is with John. So he lets go for a moment, gets back up on his knees, and his hands go to the elastic of his briefs.

He pauses. John pushes up and watches him with wide, hungry eyes. Licks his lips.

“May I?” Sherlock asks.

John looks startled when he looks back up at Sherlock, dazed. He probably hadn’t expected this when he had proposed this little experiment. But he nods quickly and firmly before looking back down again.

Sherlock takes his time, grinning, enjoying putting on a little tease for John. He pulls his boxers down in the back a little first, then slowly eases his cock out over the top. John lets out a stifled moan and he licks his lips again, slower this time. Sherlock has to bite down on his own groan, and he pushes his boxers down to his knees without further ado. He’s not quite sure what to do with them after that, so he just leaves them.

“Would you - touch yourself?” John’s whispered gasp almost sounds like he doesn’t mean to say it, but Sherlock obeys without question. He runs his hands up his thighs and belly, one hand lingering to caress his nipples while the other cups his balls before trailing lightly up the length of his own cock. Frissons of pleasure race up his spine and he can’t resist wrapping a hand around himself to stroke. The same hand that has just touched John. That thought makes his breath stutter in his lungs. “God, you - you are so perfect,” John rasps again, and he’s sitting up and placing one hand on either hip as Sherlock continues to stroke himself. A feeling swells through Sherlock and it’s… surprising. He feels… amazing. Gorgeous. _Sexy_ even. Sherlock usually knows when people find him attractive, especially men since that seems to be how he is wired, but he’s not used to _feeling sexy_. John’s eyes are bright, pupils wide, and he’s panting with a little smile on his face while he watches Sherlock’s hand on his own cock. The sight sends a rush through Sherlock veins and he groans, feeling a drop of slick slide over the head. Sherlock pushes him back down to the pillows, and John can’t stop his eyes roving all over Sherlock’s body. Sherlock knows the feeling. He can’t stop looking either.

He shuffles closer to John on his knees, between his legs, and takes John’s cock in his other hand, compares the two. John hisses, pushes his hips up, but Sherlock is back to exploring. John's skin here is darker; there is more tight wiry hair, and he is uncircumcised. The foreskin is fascinating to watch as Sherlock slides it up and over the head over and over again. Curious, he lines up their cocks, not quite touching yet - they are nearly of a length, but John is a good deal thicker, and the sight of his pale pinkness against John’s ruddy brown flush is… god, beautiful. They look beautiful together. He wonders if - yes, god, he can fit his hand around both of them and _**fuck.**_ A choked moan forces its way out of his throat at the sensation of _his cock_ and _John’s_ sliding together in his fist. He feels John’s hips stutter upwards, feels it _against his own prick_ and he feels like the bliss is going to burn him up.

“Sherlock -” John chokes out, and Sherlock looks up to see John tense all over, fists clenched, staring at what Sherlock is doing with rapt attention. Sherlock strokes and thrusts again and John throws his head back, practically vibrating with the effort to stay more or less still, to just let Sherlock explore. God he loves this man. He wants to engulf him, wants to be buried inside him, wants to fill his every pore with John Watson and write him into his DNA. He falls forward to taste the sheen of sweat on his chest and John’s arms come around him, clutching him tight and pushing up into Sherlock’s still-moving fist.

“God, you’re amazing,” John whispers, “You are - fucking - incredible, perfect, I love you, perfect,” over and over in a litany of wonder whispered straight into Sherlock’s ear, and before Sherlock can even process it John is gripping his hips hard, pushing them together and groaning. Sherlock feels John’s cock pulse against his own, feels wetness slick his fingers and belly, scrambles up so he can look down and watch John’s stuttering, shaking orgasm. There is _John Watson’s semen on his cock_ and Christ, that is all it takes. With a few tight strokes of his prick Sherlock’s own orgasm flashes brightly through him, and he buries his face in John’s chest as he comes. 

It takes a long time for his heart to stop racing, but John holds him through it. They rock together, and at some point John kisses him and Sherlock meets him eagerly, open-mouthed and deep. He can always lose himself in John’s kisses, and right now - now when they are naked together, sweaty and damp and sated, kissing is like a new language that Sherlock is eager to learn.

When they do finally roll apart, the mess between them is atrocious, but Sherlock’s brain is still swimming in a bath of serotonin and dopamine and oxytocin and he can only laugh. John laughs with him and reaches for some tissues to mop up the worst of it.

“Well,” John says, then has to clear his throat. “That went better than I expected, I have to say.” He’s grinning at Sherlock, warm and bright. Sherlock thinks he would probably be blushing if he weren’t already so flushed.

“Yes, I… I think I could grow accustomed to touching you.” He trails his knuckles over the closest skin to them - his thigh - just because he can. He wonders idly if he will ever stop wanting to touch John, wonders if it will ever become commonplace, dull, boring. It seems terribly unlikely. As if he could get bored with the violin, or clever murders, or his experiments. Hell, he didn’t even get bored of tobacco ash after analyzing 243 different types. He is not going to get bored of John Watson’s skin. Preposterous.

“My turn next time, yeah?” John says. Sherlock feels his toes curl at the thought.

“I look forward to it,” he says. “Though I make no such ridiculous promises about keeping my hands to myself.”

John’s laugh melts into something warm and soft, and he pulls Sherlock into his chest again. Sherlock listens to the sound of John’s breathing and heartbeat, lets a bone-deep contentment wash over him. Yes. Yes, he could definitely, _definitely_ get used to this.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr as [marxian-harps](http://jemariel.tumblr.com/) on tumblr! I like to make new friends. All comments welcome. Thank you for reading!


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